For the love of pasta
by Matrix the Kitty
Summary: It's a horrible terrible thing and it means the end of Italy's world. Good thing he called Germany over to save him... right?


It was horrible. It was a disaster. A horrible disaster; the world was falling apart in his very kitchen and Italy had no clue how to deal with it.

He lifted a red-stained hand to wipe away the tears bubbling in his eyes but the slight movement only made his sobbing increase. "No.." he cried, "nooo…"

The Italian sank to the floor on weakened knees, crying out as he landed in one of the crimson puddles on his marble floor.

"What do I do?" he whispered with a soft sniff. "This.. this is terrible!" tears began to slide down his face and drip down onto his damp shirtfront, mixing in with the slight red smear that was already there. "What do I do, what do I do, what do i…"

Italy's gaze landed on the phone that he'd only just installed in his kitchen. He could call Germany, he could ask for help, he could make it—he could survive this! With a shiver of hope, the Italian forced himself onto his feet and stumbled to the phone, dialing his best friend's number frantically. It was picked up on the fourth ring, and he gave the other no time to speak before crying out in fear,

"_GERMANY HELP!_"

* * *

Germany proudly hung up his duster, having just finished cleaning the entire basement. It was usually a disgusting mess, what with Prussia the (awesome) slob living and slobbing it up. Quite an accomplishment, really, even getting the Prussian out of his house so that the cleaning could happen, and the blonde prided himself greatly on it.

Now he just needed to find a nice comfortable chair to sit back and eat his wurst and the world would be—

_RING_

Germany straightened up, recognizing the ringtone to be of his phone and not his brother's. Although he'd rather ignore the phone and go to his wurst, he was far too polite to just leave it ringing. Plus, sooner or later Austria would start yelling (in a dignified way of course) at him to answer it.

With a slightly irritated sigh the German made his way over to the area where he kept his personal phone, noting briefly that the flashing digits read out the familiar number that was Italy's. Germany, knowing that his friend could be calling for anything from him being captured to wanting to play football, groaned but picked up the phone anyways. Before he could even open his mouth to question the Italian, he was interrupted by a shrill scream from the other end; begging for his help.

"I-Italy?" he gasped. The other man sobbed loudly, violently, desperately.

This was a serious problem.

"Ge-Germany! Please I n-need your help! Please!"

And just like that the call ended.

Germany stared at the phone in his hands for all of three seconds and then sprinted out of his house, keys in hand, to his car.

He drove like an Italian all the way to Italy's house, jumping out of the car before it had even stopped completely. Although he had not said so, Germany could tell that Italy had called from his home. He paused at the door to knock before logically realizing that Italy was most likely unable to even get to the door, and therefore crashed through.

"ITALY!" he bellowed, running around to check in each room. A feeble whimper came from the kitchen, and the German face palmed because really, where else would Italy be besides his kitchen? He raced to said room, coming to a complete halt right at the doorway, overwhelmed by the sight of red everywhere…

Italy lay in a scarlet heap, crumpled under his phone with an expression of sorrow on his face. His eyes actually opened when Germany inhaled sharply, and his face brightened.

The blonde rushed to his side, trying not to cry at the blood all over his friend… how had this happened? Italy kept nothing dangerous in his kitchen, at least not that he'd known about, and if another nation had attacked him while Italy was in his home he would have said so on the phone.

Italy sat up slowly, soft cries spilling out as he straightened up. His scarlet hands grabbed at Germany's uniform, sending little rivulets of dark red dripping down his shirt. The Italian started sobbing again, alarming the blonde.

"What is it, Italy tell me what happened?"

"I made pasta," he grinned weakly at the word, " and then I sat down to eat it and then…"

Germany leaned forward to catch the words as his voice shrank and withered.

"And then I just started choking and .."

Here it was…

"I realized I was allergic to pasta sauce!"

…

What.

* * *

**I know this is short, but it's a little like a "pilot" chapter. You guys, all you readers out there, you have the power to decide how this story ends. Review on what you think should happen next, and I will choose my favorite three to do as alternate ending chapters :3 **


End file.
